


addiction is a powerful thing

by Terminality



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminality/pseuds/Terminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've realized there's an odd balance between Gamzee and you, your relationship and the amount of bruises you'll be left with tonight. It's like walking a tightrope between something like a functioning relationship and something like deep, mutual hatred."</p>
<p>((GamDave ficlet, almost sorta PWP but mostly rambling prose, Dave second person POV.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	addiction is a powerful thing

**Author's Note:**

> Request on tumblr for "more blackrom dave and gamzee." I really do like this pairing a lot - I should write more of it. My blackrom OTP, for sure.

When you had first started this weird relationship with Gamzee, you hadn't really realized what you'd gotten yourself in to. You'd thought it sounded like a great idea - yeah, you hated the guy and yeah, you thought he was incredibly attractive, and hey, hate makeouts sounded just appealing enough to make it worthwhile. So you'd sort of jumped into this relationship feet first, without much thought or consideration, because that was what you did. Besides, you had nothing better to do with your time during this three year drive through hell, and what better way to occupy yourself than fucking with (and fucking, you guessed) the resident psychopathic murderer.

You were a bit crazy in that regard, you think as you stare at the ceiling of your room, wiggling your hands behind your back to try to reach an itch on your wrist. Your hands are bundled up in a tight cloth, which you assume is probably your god tier cape, actually, and you're laying on your back in the middle of your bed with Gamzee standing over you, wide grin plastered on his painted face. You give him a nod, shift your shoulders a little to indicate in his direction.

"Sup dude. You plan on letting me go any time soon?" It's unlikely, but you give it a shot. When he just laughs and peels off his shirt, kneeling on the end of the bed and putting a hand on your hip, you wiggle a little to try to avoid his touch. It's not that you don't want it and more that you want to make it hard for him. You don't give in easy, but today he's caught you off guard, and you're at a disadvantage with your hands tied and your clothes already stripped. You'd even the playing field a little if you could, rip his pants off and shove him down into the bed, but you can't really do much more than wiggle, and he's crawling over your legs to pin those down as well.

You kick him as hard as you can in the ribs, and he grunts, digging his claws into your hipbone in response.

"Ain't lettin' you go until we're done, motherfucker," he says, and he has a mischievious glint in his indigo eyes. He bites the spot where your stomach meets your hip and you squirm, feeling his teeth break skin.

"You're a dick," you murmer, and he just laughs at you, that stupid kind of creepy little laugh he does when he's caught in the moment and a little too focused on what he's doing.

You've realized there's an odd balance between Gamzee and you, your relationship and the amount of bruises you'll be left with tonight. It's like walking a tightrope between something like a functioning relationship and something like deep, mutual hatred. You sometimes want to choke him to death, other times want to feel his hands on you so badly you come into his room in the middle of the night before you realize you're even there. On nights like that, like tonight, you provoke him into a fight just because you know you can, because you want to get that flare of response out of him, that unfiltered, pure hatred. There's something intoxicating about having that much emotion shoved at you, in your direction and especially for you, yours alone. You love feeling the rush when he grabs you and throws you against the wall, shoves his teeth into the crook of your neck and digs his fingers into your waist.

You guess that's what black romance is supposed to be, and you aren't sure you completely understand it, no matter how many times Karkat has explained it to you. You guess it has something to do with the species difference. You guess you don't care much.

He bites you, hard, to get your attention, and you knee him in whatever area you can reach, and he laughs again. He climbs up the length of the bed until his hips are even with yours and you can feel his bulge against your dick and you hiss, instinctively, at the feeling. He chuckles - you think he gets as much of a thrill out of getting a rise out of you as you do him, because of the way his eyes light up when you finally crack and give in, let that cool exterior slip.

He's barely touched you and you are already unbearably hard, your runaway thoughts and the binding on your wrist doing enough to get you worked up without him touching you. He knows that, wraps a hand around your dick and pumps it a few times, slowly and tauntingly not enough.

"Dude, fuck you, are you seriously gonna keep dragging this out all night? Because I'm an important man, got all kinds of shit to do other than sit here and look at your ugly mug all damn night," you say, and he growls at you against your shoulder before leaning over and shoving his mouth against yours. You choke a little when he shoves his tongue in your mouth, because you were working up another good rant to piss him off and weren't really expecting him to respond like that. He pulls back with your blood staining his lips a pale, pinkish red.

"Still got no motherfucking manners, brother. Gotta learn to stop being so crazy bossy, shit's not chill." You scoff, even as he's biting at your ear and jerking you off and you squirm underneath him, secretly loving every goddamn minute of his attention. He's drawn blood on you in a dozen tiny little places, and it smears your chest and neck and his mouth and jaw. You've got grease paint stains rubbed into half your clothes and your skin, scars that you'll probably never get rid of, and a painful addiction to his attention, but you don't give a single fuck.

When he finally gives in, finally pushes his bulge in you, your legs hooked on his shoulder and hands going numb under your back, you're already so close that it doesn't take long for you to come. He laughs when you do, folds you in on yourself until it starts to burn and kisses you on the mouth with more teeth than probably necessary. He follows close after, spills his genetic material right there on the sheets. You can feel it trickle on your thighs, warm and thick and sticky. He pulls out of you and leans back, sitting on the edge of the bed, panting so gently it's almost not noticeable, and he grins at you.

You'd flip him off if you could.

"You know how many bedsheets I've had to re-alchemize since we started this bullshit?" He shurgs, stands up and stretches. You don't even hide the fact that you stare, eyes sweeping over every stretched muscle and curve of bone. He's gangly tall, almost awkwardly so, and more limbs and knobbly joints than anything else, but it comes together into something incredibly attractive.

But you hate him, even more so when he just shrugs and gathers up his clothes, pulling on his pants and shirt without so much as looking back at you. When he starts to walk toward the door, you realize he has no intention of letting you free.

"Oh hell no, you bastard, come back here and untie me right this goddamn minute." He looks you over from the doorway, eyebrow arched and pointed teeth gleaming.

"Gotta be up and working miracles on your own, motherfucker. I can't be helpin' you all the time," he says, and you let out a stream of curses as he walks out the door. "Hate you," he says, and when there's a whoosh of air, the door shutting behind him, you give him probably five minutes before you figure he's really not coming back.

Fucking asshole.

You sit up in the bed, sore and aching and covered in pale indigo, and you sigh and roll your shoulders. You've been in this situation ten times in the past six months. You ache everywhere, your neck is definitely still bleeding, and you aren't sure where your clothes are. You really should have learned better by now, since the outcome is always the same, but you don't really care, regardless.

It's like a drug. Gamzee Makara is a drug to you, and you can't get enough, even when you have to make your way to your computer desk and use the corner of the back of the chair to slowly loosen the knot of fabric around your hands, completely stark naked while you do so. It's humiliating, and you hate it, and him.

Completely non-platonic, mutual hatred, of course. That's probably a little fucked on several levels, from a human standpoint, but you figure you have nothing to lose, because it's not like there's very many humans left to judge you anyway.

It takes a good two or three more minutes to get your hands free, and when you do, you sit down at your computer, still naked, and click on the blinking pesterChum window you can see pop up in the corner.

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 01:34 --  
TC: ToMoRrOw, mY RoOm, sAmE TiMe  
TC: <3

You scoff, shoot him a quick "bring it on" and a spade before closing out of the window to gather up your clothes and bedsheets.

You're probably fucking insane to keep up with this, but you have no intention of letting it go any time soon.


End file.
